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Dooley stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.“I don’t smell anything,” he said.

“Which is probably a good thing,” I said. Like Harriet, I was ready to go home.

CHAPTER 11

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Vesta had to admit this art class was absolutely her thing. There were plenty of friends and acquaintances present. People like Scarlett, of course, her best friend, but also Marge, and then there was Charlene Butterwick, practically her daughter-in-law, Vena Aleman, the vet, Blanche Captor, Dolores Peltz, Sarah Flunk, Bambi Wiggins, their mailwoman. Even Marcie Trapper was there, their neighbor. It was almost a who’s who of everyone who was anyone in Hampton Cove.

“Very cozy,” she told the man who was seated next to her. He was, in fact, the only male in attendance, apart from Chanda Chekhov, the teacher, a whiskered fella with lots of hair and a sort of laidback approach to the creation of art.

“Yes, it’s one of my favorite art classes,” the man returned politely.

His name was Gallagher Davenport, and he looked as much like an artist as any artist Vesta had ever seen: dressed in a sort of snazzy orange coat with frilly lace trimmings, and a green felt hat on his head, in spite of the fact that temperatures inside were soaring, to say the least. Probably on account of the nude male model who was supposed to put in an appearance any second now. No one needs a nude male model with goosebumps. It detracts from the appeal.

“Art runs in the family,” Vesta revealed, glad to find such a listening ear in this fellow artist. “My daughter is over there,” she explained, waving to Marge, who didn’t seem all that pleased with the presence of her mom for some reason. “And then of course my cat is an artist, as well.”

When the guy regarded her a little strangely, she took out her phone and showed him a video she’d shot just that afternoon of Harriet and Brutus hard at work creating their own unique brand of art.

The man sat up with a jerk as he took her phone and regarded the video with the sort of attention to detail your true art lover likes to see.

“But this is amazing, my dear lady,” he said finally. “And you say this is your cat?”

“Yeah, absolutely. That’s Harriet,” she explained, pointing to Harriet, who was standing on top of a chair giving directions. “And that’s Brutus. He’s doing the grunt work, and Harriet is guiding him. She’s the real artist in the family, see.”

“Absolutely amazing,” the man murmured as he seemed entranced by the spectacle.

“Bob Ross is Harriet’s personal favorite,” Vesta prattled on. “Harriet can watch Bob Ross any time, day or night. She simply never tires of watching the guy. I believe she considers him her role model and her guiding light as an artist.”

“It’s very soothing to watch two cats creating art like this,” her fellow student conceded. “Very soothing indeed.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Vesta. “I watched them for half an hour this afternoon and I never had such a great nap.”

The man suddenly turned to her.“Say, my dear lady, how much for the two of them?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, unprepared for the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

“How much do you want for both cats? They are a pair, correct? One is the creative genius and the other the executor?”

“My cats aren’t for sale, buddy,” she said, and yanked her phone from the man’s hands.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the both of them.” And when she gave him a look of astonishment, he wrongly interpreted this as her driving a hard bargain, and quickly came back with, “Okay, two hundred bucks, but that’s my final offer.”

“Like I said, my cats are not for sale,” she reiterated with a touch of frostiness, and shook her head at this mercantile streak in one whom she’d considered a fellow creative.

Gallagher Davenport opened his mouth to make one final comment—perhaps raising his offer even more—but Chanda now cleared his throat, desiring speech.

“I have an announcement to make,” Chanda said. “I’m sorry to say that our model for the evening hasn’t shown up.” When loud cries of disappointment greeted his words, he hastened to add, “But I’ve arranged for a replacement. A man who has graciously agreed to fill in the void that our handsome young friend has left by his absence.” He now turned to the door, through which a man came walking, dressed in a dressing gown. “Fellow art lovers, please welcome… Tex!”

And much to Vesta’s astonishment, her own son-in-law stepped to the fore!

“Tex, what are you doing here!” Marge cried.

Tex, whose face had taken on the color of a ripe plum, swallowed once or twice, and said, with as much dignity as he could muster,“I’m here to model.”

“But…”

“Please take your position on the stage, Mr. Poole,” said Chanda, pointing to the small dais in front of the class. “And drop the robe.”

Tex hesitated, but then finally dropped the robe, revealing a puny hairless chest and a snazzy-looking pair of pink boxers with tiny blue stethoscopes.